Complicated
by Jessa4865
Summary: Finch, Reese, and Carter attempt to recover their equilibrium from the events in Number Crunch. Features Finch, but not about him. 5 parts total, COMPLETE. Rated for language. Carter/Reese
1. Chapter 1

Complicated  
>Jezyk<br>Spoilers: Anything through Number Crunch  
>Consider this work hereby disclaimed.<p>

Part One

It was an unfortunate business, and though he recognized he didn't have any choice, Harold Finch desperately wished there was someone else available to do it. But he also knew that it was all John could do to keep breathing in his current circumstances, so he could hardly begrudge the man who was slumped over in the passenger seat of the hearse, conserving his energy for when he'd need it in a few moments.

As he presented his doctored IDs and paperwork to the clerk at the morgue, Harold said yet another prayer that his friend would recover from his injuries. Megan Tillman had patched up the holes as best she could, but John had been gravely wounded, lost a considerable amount of blood, and had hardly been in a sterile environment with his open wounds. Considerable doses of antibiotics and over-the-counter fever reducers were allowing John to remain conscious most of the time, and Harold depended on the infrequent periods of lucidity to convince himself that John's hallucinations would die out as he healed.

It was disconcerting to hear the man talking to his dead girlfriend, even more so when he'd lovingly promise Jessica that he was coming home and they'd be together soon.

It was unsettling as well when John would utter Detective Carter's name, his voice and eyes revealing such hurt and betrayal as to indicate a depth of attachment Harold had no desire whatsoever to consider.

So when John suggested in the longest period of lucidity he'd had in the three days since he'd been shot that they needed a body to get rid of everyone looking for him, Harold had readily agreed. With his unlimited access to government records, he was able to find a few possibilities. It was really John's area of expertise, but he did the best he could. He determined height and build were the most important to match, supposing that things like hair, skin & eye color could be dealt with in other ways. Once he had a reasonably short list of tall, thin men, he ruled out the ones with families.

By the time John had roused again, Harold had narrowed it down to two options, two unfortunate loners with no family or friends to claim their bodies. Otherwise destined for pauper's graves, Harold told himself it was better that one of them would help save a man's life. John was down for the count; it would be months before he fully recovered, if he recovered at all, which Harold was still uncertain about. John chose the African American man who was an exact match for his height and weight rather than the blonde man who'd stood an inch shorter. Harold wasn't sure how either of them would actually suffice, but John assured him it was fine.

He also promised he'd take care of that part, understanding even in his ill health that Harold wasn't prepared for the sort of denigration of a human body that would be required to convince the CIA and the NYPD that John Reese was dead.

Harold had a hell of a time dragging John to the car, but he wasn't about to leave his friend behind. He'd learned a lot about John during that phone call, when John had expected he was about to die, when John had tried to protect him. John had been prepared to die alone, to join the countless other unidentified victims left to rot. He'd been resigned to such a fate before they'd met; he'd even referenced it once in a conversation, said he'd always figured he'd be buried without even a name.

For that reason, for the loyalty the man somehow inspired by his unassuming, faithful presence, Harold had decided that would absolutely not be the case. Though he did still expect one or both of them would get killed because of their little endeavor, Harold wasn't going to let John die alone. Even if he passed in the passenger seat of a hearse from an infection that probably could have been cured in a day with hospital care, John would be with a friend when he died.

As Harold ushered the orderly pushing the stretcher toward the hearse marked "Lattimer Funeral Home & Crematorium, Est. 1986," he winced and hoped the deathly gray color of John's skin and dark, sour expression would serve only to convince the orderly to return to the relative safety of the morgue rather than arouse suspicion. Mortuaries did tend to employ some disturbing looking individuals, at least in Harold's opinion. Luckily, the orderly's cheerful blather stopped abruptly when he saw John. He quickly loaded the body into the back and hurried inside without another word.

When Harold returned to the driver's seat, he found John's dark stare had turned to him. He forced the worry out of his voice as he spoke, adopting the unconcerned tone he usually used with John, except when he was terrified out of his wits. "Something on your mind, Mr. Reese?"

There as a pause, long enough for Harold to suspect John had lost consciousness, but he eventually spoke, his voice weak and raspy. "A hearse is a little premature, Harold. I'm not dead yet, but I do appreciate the gesture."

On death's door, the man's wry wit remained intact.

It bought a smile to Harold's face, one that he quickly hid. If the man was cracking jokes, perhaps the penicillin was working its magic. "The hearse isn't for you, Mr. Reese," he bit off, "it's for our unfortunate friend back there."

Confusion washed over John's face for a moment as he strained to look behind him. "Right."

"Go back to sleep, Mr. Reese. You'll need your strength for later." God only knew how the man was going to go about faking his own death, but just like he'd had the strength to walk down the stairs that night, Harold knew John had more determination than anyone ever had and he'd be able to do whatever he needed to do. That was, after all, the quality that made him so indispensable, both to the CIA and to Harold himself. Short of death, nothing was going to stop John from doing whatever was necessary.

And in just over twelve hours, the NYPD was investigating the human remains that had been found following an explosion in a chemical factory on the waterfront. Harold honestly didn't know if John's handiwork would be as careful and perfect as it normally was, but when Mark Snow was called in the next day, Harold decided any work of John's was better than most people's best.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

It took two weeks before the CIA was fully convinced. Reese watched with amusement from Harold's chair at the video feed of Snow outside the morgue as he discussed the positive match that had been finally made with his partner. Though it wasn't nearly as satisfying as putting a bullet in the traitor's head would be, Reese felt a swell of pride that he'd been able to snow them all. His lips curled at the word, the perfect name for the fucker; everything the man had ever done had been bullshit. Reese hoped he'd live long enough to see it bite him in the ass.

When he heard the sounds of Finch returning, the familiar uneven footsteps, the groan of effort at the top of the steps, Reese considered switching the feed. But there was no point. Finch would know anyway. Finch fucking knew everything. Reese was glad they were on the same side once again. He'd much rather have a reclusive genius for a friend than a gregarious prick like Snow.

Finch's normally expressionless face turned up into a smile which he quickly hid by turning away to hang up his coat. "It's good to see you up, Mr. Reese."

Glancing at his boss, his friend, he followed suit, only allowing a smile at the sentiment when Finch's back was turned. He was feeling a hell of a lot better than he had been, but it was still far more of an effort to sit up in a chair than he intended to let on. When Finch was facing him once again, he nodded toward the screen to invite Finch's curious gaze. "It seems that I'm dead. Again."

Finch's lips pursed in a frown. "Let's hope you stay that way this time." He'd made it clear on more than one occasion that he neither liked nor condoned Reese's decision to involve Carter and Fusco in their little universe. "The police can do their jobs and we can do ours."

"Now, Harold, you know they were helpful sometimes." The truth was Reese would involve anyone he saw fit regardless of Finch's opinion and they both knew it. That he pretended to want Finch's approval was simply a sign of respect.

"Yes, sometimes." Finch approached the chair, waiting for Reese to move and then retaking his seat before the computers. "And sometimes they tried to kill you. Easier for all of us to start fresh. Separately."

Reese shrugged. "They both came through in the end." Though his memories of that night were hazy at best, he did clearly remember the way Carter had helped him into the car and how she'd held his eyes before she closed the door. She was sorry for what she'd done. She'd risked her livelihood to help him escape. She would act differently if she was ever in a situation like that again. In his line of work, Reese had learned how to read people and he was certain his assessment of the detective was spot on. Yes, she'd made a mistake. Yes, that mistake had nearly cost him his life. But the important thing was that her intentions had been pure.

Finch didn't care what she'd intended; he only cared about the outcome.

But Reese knew the outcome was always the same. Everyone died and they all died alone. The only thing that mattered to him was the reason behind the action. Carter had had no idea what Snow was planning or she never would have agreed. Snow had lied to her, the same way he lied to everyone. Reese could hardly hold her responsible. He knew her well enough to know she was doing enough of that herself.

Trying to ignore the pain in his leg, he limped around the table to find another chair. He was tired and desperately wanted to lie back down, but it wasn't in his nature to show weakness. Besides, he was going to have to start doing something besides lying on the pull-out sofa Finch had delivered to the library for his recuperation.

Finch broke the silence, narrating his actions as his fingers flew across his keyboard. "Let's see how the detectives are doing today, shall we?"

Clenching his jaw and refusing to look, Reese told himself it wasn't right to want to see her so badly. He hadn't seen her since that night, and though he'd checked while Finch was out, she hadn't been at her desk that morning. He shouldn't want to call her and tease her, dole out tiny bits of useful information, flirting in the only way he dared anymore. He knew he shouldn't defend her so vehemently. He knew it was dangerous to let himself care. But there wasn't a damn thing he could do about that. The only defense he had against getting hurt was to keep it to himself and even that was proving to be far more difficult than he had planned. When Carter's number had come up, Finch had been curious as to why Reese knew so much about her. He'd damn near given himself away then and so forced himself not to look at the monitor.

Rather than Carter's lilting voice, it was Fusco's thick accent that drifted out of the speaker. "Crazy bitch chased the fucker three blocks before she realized it wasn't even him." He paused to chuckle with his buddies while Reese fought the urge to punch out the screen. Reese knew Fusco was talking about Carter and every fiber of his being wanted to defend her.

Fusco was still chuckling when he continued, "I swear she's chasing every guy in a suit. Every guy she sees, she just goes running after him. Someone's going to sue her for harassment."

One of Fusco's pals piped up, laughter in his voice. "Chasing every guy in a suit in New York, that's a tall order!"

Reese knew he was snarling and he knew Finch saw it.

There wasn't a damn thing he could do to hide it.

He knew Carter had to put up with that kind of shit every day; it was the price she paid for being a good cop, a good mother, a good person. It wasn't fair that she was now haunted by the decision she'd made, by the fact that following the rules had been the wrong thing to do for the first time in her life. It was the guilt that was making her chase ghosts. And Reese knew full well that chasing ghosts was a quick way to get into a dangerous situation, one from which he might not be able to save her.

He had to make it right. He had to find a way to reach her. He couldn't sit there while someone he cared about was hurting. Not if there was something he could do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

She wasn't expecting it. She should have been. God knew when she put John Reese in that car she didn't anticipate ever seeing him alive again. Still, she'd been certain she'd seen him so damn many times since then, a hint of a shadow rounding a corner, a tall form ducking through a door just as she turned around. Fusco thought it was funny, but she kept hoping, kept trying to catch a glimpse of a man she knew was probably long cold.

And still, when her captain called her into his office, when she saw the unwelcome face of Mark Snow, she felt her stomach drop. She'd known, but still she hadn't expected it. She wasn't prepared for it. And though she heard the somber voice reciting the words, though she saw the barely concealed glee in the man's eyes, she couldn't believe it. She knew it was true and tried to deny it all the same.

Those remains that had been found had been positively identified as John Reese. The case could be closed, the warrants forgotten, the man erased. Snow was only delivering the news in person for the benefit of a reaction, she knew, and so she refused to give it to him. She gave the men a curt nod and promised the captain she'd finish up the paperwork by the end of the week.

The captain reminded her there were lots of other cases, lots of living perps for her to chase.

Snow just watched silently, carefully studying her face as though he was looking for her to reveal a secret.

It made her wonder if maybe he wasn't quite as convinced as he'd been leading others to believe. But the hope was short lived, dying in her mind as painfully as Reese undoubtedly had. She'd seen him shot twice. She'd seen the puddles of blood he left in his wake. She'd seen his white pallor and face soaked with sweat even as he shivered. He'd already been in shock when he'd stared at her that last time. He was dying and he knew it and it was her fault and he knew that too.

Shoving the feelings away, she ignored Snow and fixed her eyes on her captain. "I forgot to tell you, I have to take my son to a doctor's appointment so I need to leave early." Not waiting for a response, she turned and left. She didn't know how long she'd be able to keep her tears at bay, but she knew she didn't want to be in the precinct when they started to fall.

She stopped at her desk to grab her purse, barely glancing at Fusco. His continually joking friends scattered with one look. She swallowed hard, willing her voice not to crack as she delivered the news. "They found his body. He's dead."

Fusco's smile disappeared. "Your guy? Really? He's dead?" Although he generally seemed to only listen to her with half an ear, Carter found something redeeming in the way the man looked honestly saddened.

She nodded, hating that she'd had to breathe life into those words, into the idea she despised. "Yeah, the CIA's sure."

Fusco dropped into his chair and let out a breath it seemed he'd been holding a long time. "I guess if the CIA's sure that's good enough for me." His eyes dropped away from his partner, seeming to linger on the doll he'd told her had been a gift from his son. "Can't believe anything could kill that son of a bitch. Thought he was Superman."

"Guess they found some Kryptonite."

The words rolled through her head as she drove home, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. But it was. She was the Kryptonite. She'd been his weakness. He'd trusted her and she'd lead him to his death. She stopped at a liquor store on her way. She was going to need quite a lot of alcohol to drown the memories. She wasn't sure there was enough alcohol on Earth to drown the guilt.

She texted her son as she rode the elevator to their apartment, finding it easier to lie in writing message than to his face, telling him she was working late and he should stay with his grandmother for the evening. Since her husband's death, she'd devoted herself to being a perfect role model for her son and making sure he was brought up right. Therefore, she couldn't have him around her when she had every intention of getting shit-faced. She fiercely hoped Taylor would never have the occasion to feel so absolutely horrible that drinking himself unconscious was a valid decision. She decided Taylor was too smart to make the sort of stupid mistake she had and that comforted her for a moment.

As soon as she got inside, she wasted no time. She headed straight for the kitchen, pulled out a tumbler, and filled it halfway with vodka fresh from the bottle. She only spent a moment contemplating adding orange juice to mask the taste, but decided against it. She didn't deserve the pleasure of better taste. She deserved to suffer and gagged down a large mouthful. After forcing down half the glass against her taste buds' wishes, she paused long enough to relocate to her bedroom. There was always a chance that Taylor might need a change of clothes or a book for school and might stop by to grab it. Passing out on the couch wasn't an option.

She chugged the rest of that glass and set it on the bedside table as she emptied her pockets. Her badge and gun were first. Then her phone, a few dollars, and some receipts joined them. Then she kicked off her heels and shrugged off her jacket. Changing into pajamas was too much effort. Instead she sat down on the bed in her jeans and sweater and switched on the TV with the remote for some company.

Three glasses later, the TV was annoying her and she turned it off. The winter days were short and darkness came early. All of her life she'd been afraid in the dark. Not of it, but in it. Being a woman, being a cop, she knew all too well the sorts of things that lurked in the darkness. For a few months there, though, she'd known there was someone lurking out there who wasn't going to hurt her. She pursued him as a criminal, that was the only valid reason she had to chase him, but no criminal investigation had anything to do with why Reese had been such an interest of hers.

There was something about him, something dark and mysterious and intoxicating and addictive. She'd known it the first time she'd looked at him, sizing up the man she thought was an old, drunken homeless freak, catching his hooded eyes and recognizing there was far more to him than he wanted anyone to believe. When she spoke to him in the following months, she tried to reconcile his incredible voice with the filthy mess who'd been at the police station that night and had failed every time.

No wonder. When she'd finally gotten a good look at him, saw his face uncovered by the salt and pepper beard, she realized the voice that fairly dripped sex appeal matched perfectly with his chiseled features.

And after their interactions, after the tender way he'd stroked her hand when she'd been shot, after all those months, she didn't bother to pretend she didn't feel a connection to him. She'd been drawn to him, and though it was now far too late to realize it, she hadn't really given a shit about wanting to lock him up. She'd just wanted to interact with him, to be near him, to know him.

Wanting to kick herself, she poured back another half a glass. She couldn't get to know him because he was dead and he was dead because she'd made him that way, the same as if she'd pulled the trigger herself. She was responsible for his death. That was a pretty fucking unbearable burden she'd have to live with.

She recalled the way he'd been living on the streets and drinking his way through life when she'd first met him. She wondered if she wouldn't wind up the same way, trying to annihilate her memories or her liver, whichever gave first. But she had a family. Not just people to take care of, but people who would take care of her. She hated that Reese hadn't had that comfort. Sure, that guy had been there to haul him away when he was too sick to escape on his own, but she didn't know if he was really a friend.

Maybe it had been loneliness that made him reach out to her. Maybe he'd thought she would be his friend.

Damn it. She didn't want to wind up a miserable, angry drunk sobbing into her glass like her father before he died, but there she was, lying in the dark, sobbing into the bottle since she'd grown too lazy to bother with a glass anymore.

It didn't take much more of the vodka to render her unconscious, the tears drying on her face as she slept.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

Reese was disheartened by how easy it was to pick the lock on Carter's apartment. He'd expected better security for a cop who was also a single mother, for a woman who saw homicides day in and day out and knew how awful the world could be. Then again, he thought as he secured the door behind himself, there were few people who were as adroit as lock-picking as he was, and none of that handful would have any reason to sneak into Carter's place.

He took a moment to look around, to size up her personal space. The apartment was small, a decent size for Manhattan, carefully furnished. He knew her financial situation wasn't the best, but she did ok. She'd splurged on a brown leather sofa, scrimped on the pressboard tables. The shelves were crammed full of books, mostly classics, and movies. One section near the TV held a video game system and games, evidence of Taylor's youth.

He passed through to the kitchen, easily able to picture the pair moving around in the morning, Taylor packing his lunch while Carter made herself coffee. There were pictures and notes pinned on the fridge with magnets, reminders of good times and appointments to keep. Even empty, the room still looked busy, a cereal bowl in the sink, the coffee can sitting open on the counter. He wished he could be there, in a home like this, with a family getting ready for the day.

Then again, families only made you vulnerable. He knew that better than anyone.

As he was turning for the hall, his phone rang, Finch's voice in his ear.

"Where are you, Mr. Reese?"

His mouth curled into a smile. "Worried about me, Harold?"

"Of course not," his voice filled with so much vehemence he gave himself away. "I just wasn't expecting you to venture out so soon."

"I'll be fine, Dad." He kept his voice softer than usual, but he kept his eyes trained on the closed door at the end of the hall, unsure if an angry, armed Carter would appear at any moment.

"Mr. Reese, I asked where you are." This time his voice held a hint of a warning, like he was already well aware of the answer. He probably was, Reese knew, since Finch was undoubtedly tracking him the way he tracked everyone.

"I'm at Carter's apartment." He hoped honesty would win him some points.

"I don't think that's wise considering that the detective is there." He paused to verify. "At least her phone is."

"I know Carter's here, Finch. It would defeat the purpose if she wasn't."

"I must protest, Mr. Reese. I went to a lot of trouble to convince everyone that you're dead. I'd prefer you didn't jeopardize everything again so soon." Finch's voice was higher, his words rushed, his anxiety obvious.

"I think the detective learned her lesson, Finch." He knew she could be trusted now. Anyone else might be confused by the reasoning, but he knew better. She wouldn't do it again. That she'd made a bad call and experienced the regret made her less likely to repeat it.

"I'm unconvinced."

"I'm taking the night off, Finch. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Without waiting for the words that were coming, Reese disconnected the line, pulling the ear piece away and putting it in his jacket pocket. Finch's voice in his head was the last thing he needed.

Reese had been watching, listening, spying on the detective while Finch had been out. He'd heard her get the news of his death. He heard the way she took off work for no valid reason. He saw her going into the liquor store and coming out with a bottle too big for one person. He heard the sobs. That had been the last straw. He'd wanted to do something before, but when he realized she was crying herself to sleep over his death, he couldn't ignore it.

He honestly didn't care what the hell Finch had to say about it. Reese had to answer to himself and he had to be able to sleep at night. Even with all the things he'd done in his career, all the lives he'd taken, the thing that would haunt him most would be letting Carter suffer.

And so it was with utter determination, and not just a tiny amount of fear, that he turned the knob to let himself into Carter's bedroom.

He didn't have a plan. He never had much need for one. He was good at thinking on his feet, at flying by the seat of his pants. He was there to comfort her, to alleviate the guilt torturing her, but how he could go about that, well that was up in the air.

She'd been sobbing when he'd left Finch's library, but had passed out in the time since, her body curled into the fetal position, still fully dressed, the abandoned bottle of vodka spilling onto blanket beside her. He took the bottle from her lax hand, setting it on the table beside her weapon and shield. Even with only the street lamp illuminating the room, he could see the streaks on her face, the makeup smeared down her cheeks with her tears.

He could fight it out with Finch later, but there was no question of what he had to do.

He walked around to the far side of the bed, dropping his suit coat over a chair before he crawled in the bed with her. She was facing away from him, still curled tightly into herself, as he sidled up behind her. His arms moved carefully, not wanting to disturb her, reaching one of them under her head to act as a pillow while the other stretched around her waist and pulled her against him.

He waited, expecting that she would awaken and attack, but she didn't. Her body relaxed, unconsciously seeking the comfort she didn't dare ask for when she was awake. He relaxed as well as soon as he realized she was out cold, allowing his eyes to close as he reveled in the sort of chaste physical comfort he hadn't sought for years.

She began to stir in the wee hours of the morning, her body growing restless, her voice muttering softly to the demons in her nightmare. Reese shushed her, his lips moving close to her ear, assuring her that everything was ok. She quieted immediately, her hands gripping one of his arms until she slipped back to sleep.

He knew, when the first rays of light began to lighten the room, that his time was up. He couldn't risk staying any longer, lest she wake up and, with the hangover she was certain to suffer, be less than welcoming. As he withdrew his arms and began to slide away from her, she stirred, rolling toward him, her eyes peeking open for a brief moment.

Reese froze, thinking of Finch's warning, realizing that his boss might have been right. It could well have simply been wishful thinking that assured him Carter wouldn't turn him in a second time.

But as her eyes drifted closed, a soft smile lit her face.

He couldn't stop himself. He wasn't even sure what he was doing as he leaned forward, letting his lips brush gently across her cheek.

Her eyes opened again, remaining open a bit longer, meeting his. "John?"

He smiled back at her, unafraid of the affection that warmed his eyes. "Go back to sleep, Jos."

Her eyes slipped closed again and this time, rather than with tears, she fell asleep with a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

Harold wasn't much for sleeping. He preferred being in his library, surrounded by his books and the equipment that allowed him to spy on everyone all the time. It made him feel like maybe the universe wouldn't get the better of him again as long as he was keeping an eye on it. He was in a bad mood as well, mostly because John hadn't be willing to listen to him, and so arrived earlier than most days.

Unlike himself, John was a brave, courageous man who didn't mind living on the edge. Harold snorted derisively into his coffee. Maybe others would call it brave and courageous. He called it stupid. As many close calls as he'd had, this last one being far closer than the man had even realized, John should know better.

The woman had turned him in. Betrayed him. Ratted him out the first chance she got. And John had nearly died. Without a skilled doctor who owed John a huge favor, well, Harold didn't want to think about what would have happened. So what the hell was the purpose of faking his own death if he was going to disprove it?

John liked the thrill. He was addicted to the adrenaline rush. That was the only explanation. And it was unfortunate because Harold needed John to help him. He couldn't protect the innocent alone. He needed John for the very reasons it made it difficult to control him. John was one in a billion. Harold was well aware of that; he'd searched for over a year to find the right person to help him and John was the only one who fit the bill.

Harold would simply have to put his foot down. Insist that John listen to him. Demand that John take fewer chances. Perhaps John had no fear of death, his fate should he ever be caught, but Harold was looking at life in prison or execution himself for treason. Playing with one's own fate was one thing; playing with Harold's - he'd already had a taste of that and he suffered the pain of it every day. Yes, he would have to give John an ultimatum to be more careful in the future. Perhaps John would listen. Perhaps not.

Out of curiosity, he checked on John's phone and got no answer, then out of fear of just what John had decided to do, Harold activated the mike on Carter's phone. The quiet that comforted him only lasted a few seconds before the detective's groggy voice sounded across the line.

John.

When the fuck had they gotten on a first name basis? Finch glared at the computer as though such an angry stare would convince it not to tell him such things.

Go back to sleep, Jos.

Oh hell no. That was just not going to work. John was irreplaceable; he'd already come to that conclusion. Harold hadn't expected the hardened, broken man would recover from life's mistreatment so quickly. Harold had known a job, a purpose, a reason to spend the days sober, would be helpful, but he had never thought John would bounce back so easily.

Harold had believed that losing Jessica had wounded John beyond ever falling in love, just as losing his own partner had destroyed Harold's ability to love. And yet, from the soft tone of his voice and the gentle words he spoke, it seemed very much like John had gone and done just that.

This was going to be very complicated indeed.

He waited until John showed up, pretending not to notice the wrinkled pants, hiding his fury as best he could. "Did you enjoy your evening off?"

A ghost of a smile appeared on John's face, gone almost as soon as it appeared. "Anything interesting here?"

Finch looked away. "You're really not in any shape to work yet." He hated that he was watching numbers go by, but he couldn't send the man out when he still wasn't well.

John threw himself into a chair and stared at Harold. "This is starting to get boring. You don't want to see me bored, Harold."

Swallowing hard, he refused to give into the joking. There were a lot of things he didn't want to see and yet it seemed he was already seeing one. He fixed his stare on the other man and decided direct was best. "Did you sleep with Detective Carter?"

Harold considered it a success when John flinched the slightest bit.

"Are you asking me if I broke into a drunk woman's apartment and had sex with her while she was passed out?" He leaned forward, his eyes like ice that sent shivers through Harold's veins.

His eyes darted back to the safety of his computer screens. "No." Not when he thought about it like that; John wasn't the type. There was some sort of attachment there, but clearly it hadn't crossed that line. At least not yet. Whatever was going on, he knew John wasn't going to fill him in. And still, he had to ask. "Is there anything I should know?"

"No." John's eyes had moved away, his vague expression that made it seem like he wasn't paying any attention was familiar to Harold by now, though he'd realized long ago that John was always paying attention.

"So things are all right then?"

Another smile on John's face, this one took longer to fade. "Yes, Harold, things are all right."

"May I ask how that's possible since she thinks you're dead?" He continued to press, even knowing he wasn't going to get anything out of the man.

But John atypically answered him in a perfectly straight-forward manner. "She'll think it was a dream."

"And how will that help?" He didn't bother to ask what Carter would think was a dream. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

"She won't feel guilty for killing me anymore." John moved away then, walking over to the window and gazing out at the city. He was done talking for the time being.

Harold didn't believe it was possible, didn't think a dream would alleviate the guilt Carter had been feeling, but he didn't bother to say it. There was always the chance John was right, and so, to limit the opportunity that he might be wrong, Harold held his tongue.

He turned his attention was to his computer, pulling up the feed from the camera on Fusco's desk, waiting to see which one of them would be proven right.

Harold wanted to be disappointed, but it was hard when he saw the smile on Carter's face.

Harold almost told him, nearly congratulated him on having fixed the situation, but he didn't see any reason to encourage the smug grin that had appeared on John's face.

It seemed Harold would just have to get used to things being complicated.


End file.
